1-UP
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: Kyle gets a little too frustrated with Mario Maker, but Kenny can help with that. Can he also help Kyle find out what it feels like to be cuddled correctly?


Kyle takes a clinical approach to cuddling, or at least that's the consensus of his exes. An unfair one, in his opinion, because absolutely none of them understood _how_ to cuddle_ right_.

First example: Chris Donnelly, the high school boyfriend who lasted six weeks too long. He expected Kyle to affectionately bear his weight, always leaning on him like a piece of furniture. That wasn't cuddling.

Next up: David Rodriguez, the college commitment who should've been dropped two semesters in. His snuggling was more like smothering, with the added bad habit of adding knots to Kyle's neck. That wasn't cuddling, either.

And begrudgingly then: Craig Tucker, the on-and-off time-passer who embodied his post-graduation desperation. His aloof air always returned by the afterglow, Kyle lucky to get a lukewarm arm slung limply over his shoulder. That _definitely_ was _not_ cuddling.

It's not like his expectations are unrealistic. No, comfort is a pretty basic principle, if not _the_ fundamental attribute. The ideal is attained through simple equilibrium, through two people attaining balance through support and accommodation, through a mutual process.

Maybe it sounds mathematical, but the application is practical. If no one negotiations positions, someone ends up with something cramped and something else tingly and another something a strange mix of both. But people can be selfish and short-sighted, limited to their own perspectives, overlooking the needs of their partner for one reason or another.

Yet they're still _so shocked_ when their asses get dumped.

But who needs that shit anyway? Not Kyle! _No sirrr-reee!_ He doesn't need—scratch that—he doesn't _want_ any kind of relationship! What, does he really crave the warm and comforting touch of another? Long for a chest to rest his head on? Or a hand to soothingly pet his thigh? Nope! Absolutely not!

Why would he yearn for someone pressed against him, fitting to his form, complimenting every curve and contour? What is he, a one-fourth tablespoon, wistfully waiting for the scoop of one-half? No! That's _lame_! Just like dating! Just like boyfriends! And especially just like those gooey happy feelings that start off sweet and honeyed but always spoil and curdle in the end!

_Super! Fucking! __**Lame!**_

"_Oh no!"_

On TV, a 3D render of Mario raises his hands above his head, stunned by his careless collision with a waddling Goomba. Kyle blinks, once-twice, then scans over the level created by someone with a Korean username. Realising he ran into the only enemy left on-screen, Kyle watches helplessly as the tiny Italian plumber plummets off the foreground and into oblivion. As the screen transitions, Kyle starts thinking that single life might be taking its toll on him. _Ba-da-dadada-da-da_.

He breathes out, a harsh exhale coupled with a tightened grip on the pro controller. He toys with the thumb-sticks impatiently, the life counter appearing on screen, then ticking down from two to one. Because Kyle _really_ needs Mario Maker 2 rubbing his loneliness in his face. His twiddling intensifies, hoping the loud clacking plastic drowns out the low groan rumbling in his throat.

It doesn't.

"_Damn_," A smooth drawl accompanies a soda can crack, carbonated fizz punctuation tempered amusement. Kyle's eyes flicker as bubbles pop-pop, finding Kenny in the apartment kitchenette, leaning against the countertop oh-so-casually. His pinkie tip-tap, tip-taps his Dr Pep-er, the metallic ting echoing in Kyle's head.

How long has Kenny been watching him struggle through basic bitch levels? He can't say for sure but, judging by the smirk on his lips, he guesses Kenny's probably witnessed about five glorious minutes of outstanding failure.

This is what he gets for rooming with South Park's self-proclaimed _hokage_.

Kyle quickly hits pause, preserving his precious seconds on the timer, whilst Kenny raises the can to his lips. Rather than immediately launch into a lengthy but well-deserved critique of Kyle's underwhelming platforming abilities, he slowly sips the fresh Dr Pep-er, savouring the moment more than the mix of flavours. Or Kyle figures he is, considering Kenny had no problem thwarting Dracula in _Castlevania III_, exclusively earned S ranks in _Cuphead_'s Expert mode, and defeated Sans' boss form in only two attempts. To a gaming savant like him, Kyle must look like a total fucking _pleb_.

A satisfied gulp marks the end of his slurping, Kenny lifting the can to his ear. He shakes it lightly, listening to the remnants slosh against aluminium. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, pleased with his consumption, then his gaze shifts to back Kyle. A playful glint illumines the blue, not a shred of judgement darkening those clear summer skies. His grin widens and, in a teasing singsong, "Someone's on the verge of a _rage quit_."

Kyle opens his mouth, wants to call _bullshit, BULLSHIT, BULL-__**SHIT**_; except Kenny isn't wrong. No, if he hadn't interrupted, Kyle would have wasted his last life, cursed out his Game Over, and declared Miyamoto his sworn nemesis or something equally mature. Funny how frustration can transform even the most respectable of individuals into a butt-hurt twelve-year-old on a Call of Duty server.

Rather than blurt out childish obscenities, Kyle purses his lips, swallows dry and acrid air, and grumbles, "Half these things are trolls anyway."

He snorts, not in the piggish way Cartman does, or the ironic way Stan does, in that weirdly-humbling-kind-of-cute way only Kenny does. Because, _sure_, he's beaten shit like _Super Meat Boy_ and _I Wanna Be The Guy_, shit that makes a handful sadistic Nintendo users look like a few flaccid penises, but is _he_ bragging? No, because only desperate losers and total virgins think _that's_ worth rubbing in other people's faces. Kenny isn't either of those; not by a longshot.

Kyle, on the other hand, is _definitely_ leaning towards the former.

"No shit, Sherlock," _A breeze_, Kenny always talks like that, like it's always a goddamn breeze. Kyle's always envied that, that carefree attitude towards the truly trivial, able to treat the little things as _little things_. If Kyle could do that, maybe he wouldn't find his head up his ass all the time. A subtle head tilt sweeps messy blond, and Kenny's eyes flicker back-and-forth, back-and-forth, back-and-forth between Kyle and the screen.

Kyle blinks, once-twice, before he sees Kenny light up. Light blue shines, shimmers, scintillates, animates from summer sky hues to solar flare bursts. Cool guys don't look at explosions, but Kyle stares at Kenny as he combusts, such a cool guy he _is_ the explosion. With a click of his tongue, a grin tugs at the corner of his lips.

_Uh oh,_ Kyle knows that look_, Kenny's got an_ _idea_.

"Want me to try for ya?" Excitement slathers every syllable, drips off his words. He reminds Kyle of a golden retriever, Air Bud gearing to conquer E-Sports, except with bigger, bolder puppy-dog eyes. Fuck, not even a monster _or_ Cartman could say no to _that_ face. How can Kyle?

He _can't_, and Kyle quickly succumbs to whatever pure and wholesome energy Kenny's putting out into the world, half-wondering if he had a chance to start. His gaze shifts once more to the pause menu, a glower swearing he'll have his revenge, and a sigh specifying it will be another day. Then, he shuts his eyes, takes one hand off the controller, and lazily holds it towards Kenny, _"Go nuts."_

Kenny slams the can down, a not-so-contained _YES!_ escaping his lips. Kyle pictures his triumphant gestures, a joyful beam and an exaggerated fist pump, then listens to footsteps glide over tile, trample down carpet. The whole couch rocks when he plops next to Kyle, the cushion reluctantly shifting its stuffing to accommodate more weight. He expects Kenny to tear the controller right out of his hand, possibly rip his arm off in the process, but he confines his excitement to an overzealous grip. He only grasps one side, giving Kyle a chance to let go and…

He doesn't notice Kenny's arm sneak around him, not until he grabs the other end and locks Kyle in place. As he brings the controller closer, he pulls Kyle against him, tucks him safely at his side. Smoky menthol saturates his nostrils, chills his mind. Kyle leans on Kenny's collar, quickly accommodated by a few slight shifts, comfort attained without breathing a word. Kenny always complains about being cold, yet his body constantly exudes a strangely lively heat, one that seeps through thin layers of cotton and penetrates Kyle's skin. The warmth builds, smoulders in his chest, flushes his cheeks, and Kyle finally starts _processing_.

_This_ is cuddling. This is _real_ cuddling. _He_ and _Kenny_ are _cuddling_?!

His eyes flicker to Kenny, for an answer, for (in)validation, for _something_. Instead Kyle finds how _close_ their faces are, noting lightest freckles dusting his cheekbones and the smallest scratches leftover from shaving. And he sees how _in the zone_ Kenny is. Blue stares ahead with intense focus, too busy guiding Mario through the surprisingly perilous Mushroom Kingdom to pick up on anything else. Does he even _know_ they may-or-may-not be cuddling?!

Kyle opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. What's supposed to come out? Sure, if Kyle told Kenny he was uncomfortable, Kenny would immediately stop. But Kyle isn't uncomfortable, not in the least. If anything he's _too_ comfortable. _So_ comfortable. Bordering on the _more-than-platonic_ type of comfortable…

Now is probably the _worst_ time to realise he has a crush on Kenny. Like, _the absolute worst time_.

If Kyle says something, he might make Kenny uncomfortable. Scratch that—he'll _definitely_ make Kenny _extremely uncomfortable_. And it won't just end with changing their seating arrangement, because they still live together and split rent and share a bathroom and _oh shit, he's going to need a new roommate now, since Kenny will undoubtedly want to move far, far away from someone so romantically-challenged it's cringeworthy_.

_Super! Fucking! __**Cringeworthy!**_

"_Fuck yeah_," Kenny's victorious mutter tickles Kyle's ear. Although Kyle instinctually believes Kenny somehow read his mind and is wholeheartedly agreeing with his self-deprecation, he fact-checks himself with one glance at the screen. The _Course Clear_ banner declares Kenny's platforming skills superior, then a _Next_ button appears and offers a continuation. Before Kenny can tap A and continue Mario's endless search for Peach's castle, he looks to Kyle and—

Kenny finally _recognises_ the situation. And, judging by the deep shade of pink dyeing his face, he wasn't entirely aware of what he was doing; he just did it _automatically_. Or would that be _subconsciously_?

"I, uh…" His voice cracks, not in the _so-mortified-puberty-returned_ way, but in the _butterflies-whirling-in-the-stomach_ way. Kyle watches him cycle through the same emotions, feels his heart beat-beat faster as he reaches a similar conclusion. Only he looks away before going a step further, begins slowly retracting his arm while muttering a weak, "My bad…"

Kyle goes autopilot, or he assumes that's what happens. In less than a second, he's holding Kenny's hand, refusing to let him slink off awkwardly into the night. They sit frozen in place, green gazing into blue, blue boring into green, each waiting for the other to say something, say _anything_.

Kenny gulps, "Ky—"

"Do you wanna play another level for me?" Kyle wonders if he sounds like a chipmunk, talking too fast, everything spilling out at once. Unconfident in his words' reliability, he directs Kenny's hand back on the controller, leaves his own on top. As Kenny lifts a brow, Kyle flashes a sheepish smile, "_Please_?"

Kenny holds his stare for a long, long moment. Then a smirk curls on his lips, squeezing Kyle a little bit tighter as laugh slips out, "I thought you'd _never_ ask."


End file.
